


But if this is a Fairy Tale...

by Elover05



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Corruption, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Morally Ambiguous Character, One-Shot, Origin Story, POV Second Person, Sombra | Olivia Colomar-centric, Villian Origin Story, don't get me wrong i love sombra but i feel like i needed to write a villian origin story for her, this one is kinda dark lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26294530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elover05/pseuds/Elover05
Summary: But if this is a fairy tale, you are not the hero. You are the villain.Or: Sombra's decent into villiany.
Kudos: 7





	But if this is a Fairy Tale...

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to do a darker story with Sombra, because i feel like i don't write about her trauma enough, and i also wanted to try writing a bigger story in second person. So... here you go <3

You are three years old and you are dressed in a princess costume. 

It is bright and happy, but not as bright and happy as your smile. You sing and giggle as you skip around your house. Your parents watch you with grins. Their eyes shine with pride. You are so young, and yet, already so wonderful.

Their gaze meets yours and you smile wider as you pull them into your fantasy, stepping on your papa’s feet as he dances with you. Your mama twirls you around.

You dance and dance and dance until you are out of breath. Until you collapse onto the couch with a flushed face and uncontrollable laughter. The plastic tiara has fallen off your head, and your dress is covered in sweat and you feel like true royalty.

Your parents call you _ princesa _ for weeks.

But if this is a fairy tale, then you are not the princess. You are the evil queen.

You are six years old, a hand clasped over your mouth as you watch through the slits of the closet you are stuffed in. Your parents' corpses lie on the ground, and you can’t do anything but stare.

It has been hours, and you have not moved a muscle. Gunshots ring in your ears, but you don’t know if they’re a memory or if your neighbors are experiencing the same fate.

No tears stream down your face. No sobs wrack your body. You have to be strong. You have to be quiet. That was the last thing your Mama had asked of you.

“Be strong for me and don’t make a noise, okay? They won’t notice you if you’re silent,” she had assured you right before she closed the closet door.

Seconds later, the front door was torn down by an omnic, and the whiz of bullets tore through your parent’s delicate flesh.

It is a memory that will stay with you; haunting you as you sleep, as you wake, as you do anything.

But you will not let yourself fall. Your Mama asked you to be strong, so you will be. She saved your life, and you will not let that go to waste.

The world may be at war, but you will survive. You will become the flower that grows despite trauma. You will become the goodness that people need.

But if this is a fairy tale, then you are not the goodness. You are the corrupted.

You are eight years old, and you have learned how to hack.

You found a computer in an abandoned library. It is your secret treasure. You scour the internet, finding a goldmine of information. Information is power, and power is survival. So you search and search until you find videos about coding, programming, hacking.

It comes almost naturally, the way your fingers glide across a keyboard as you type strings of numbers upon numbers. You are peerless, unparalleled.

Hacking becomes soothing, something you can do to drown out the hunger, the pain, the fear. You lose yourself in the numbers, letting your mind focus on something easy.

Eventually, you become bored. It is no longer enough to hack old, abandoned websites. You move on to things that are bigger. Old corporations that were destroyed by the war.

You stumble across a dead man’s bank account, full with thousands of dollars. The man had no family. No one to inherit the money. So you take it, keep a few hundred dollars for yourself and distribute the rest to charities that help other orphans.

You smile to yourself, even after the small amount of money you kept for yourself runs out. You feel like a fairy godmother, granting wishes and making others happy.

But if this is a fairy tale, you are not the fairy godmother. You are the witch.

You are nine years old, and  _ Los Muertos _ asks you to hack the police captain’s computer.

You think long and hard. You think of  _ Los Muertos _ , of their violent tendencies. You think of the police captain, about his blatant corruption.

You think: ‘Is it right to ruin a man’s life because he is doing wrong?’

In the end, it is not that question that makes you agree. It is the month of meals they offer you. It is your aching stomach. It is your too thin body that begs for food.

So you steal from the bakery, grab a basket of fresh bread. You deliver it personally to the captain, smiling wide and fake.

He laughs, tells you how happy he is that there are still sweet young girls like you in his city.

He does not notice you take your glove, something you had built yourself, and touch the back of his computer. He does not notice you downloading all his files.

He keeps smiling, smiling, smiling.

You keep smiling, smiling, smiling.

_ Los Muertos _ fulfills their promise, and you do not feel hungry for a month.

The food in your stomach is almost enough to make you ignore the headline that declares the police captain is dead. That  _ Los Muertos _ had somehow found his home address, had killed him while he slept.

You tell yourself that it was only justice. You are a peacekeeper, disposing of the corrupt people that pollute your city.

But if this is a fairy tale, you are not a peacekeeper. You are the chaos bringer.

You are sixteen, and you have failed.

You got cocky, and it cost you everything. Your computer, your identity, your freedom. 

Who would have guessed that sticking your nose in a digital government conspiracy would end up with your computer exploding. With your identity being found out. With what was left of your future in shambles.

They are after you now. You must leave everything behind, you must erase every trace of your existence. That is the only way you will stay hidden.

It’s not enough.

They, whoever they are, chase you. You run and run and run while they follow. You are never fast enough. 

You are surrounded by explosions, literal and metaphorical. They won’t stop until you’re dead, you know.

But you will not go down easy. You will fight tooth and nail. It’s all you know to do. Your upbringing has left you with nothing but a will to survive, so strong that it will burn you from the inside until all there is left of you is ash.

So you upgrade. You get cybernetic implants from the black market. Along your skull, your spine, your arms, every part of you. 

No longer will you be confined to using a computer. Now, you are the computer.

It’s everything you need. You outrun them, time and time again. You stay out of their reach, just barely.

You use your freedom to expand. You take down corporations left and right. If you deem them unnecessary, you destroy them. You make a name for yourself, you make sure everyone knows that you are not to be messed with.

You fight for freedom, you tell yourself. For freedom from the government, from the omnics, from the people chasing you.

But if this is a fairy tale, you are not the freedom fighter. You are the jailor.

You are twenty and you are approached by a terrorist organization.

Talon offers survival and protection, two things that you know better than to refuse. So you join, you play the part of the perfect employee.

They are all fooled.

You work for them, lie for them, hack for them, kill for them.

They don’t notice the money slowly disappearing from their systems, transferring to your account. They don’t notice the superiors you blackmail. They don’t notice the information you steal. They don’t notice the few missions you sabotage.

You rise through the ranks quickly. You are skilled and useful and Talon would be a fool to not treat you like you are.

You are using them, like they were planning to use you.

It’s not wrong. It’s just the way the world works. 

Besides, even if it is wrong, it’s worth it. The ends justify the means. So you keep fighting, lying, hacking, and killing all in the service of monsters. Other double agents have nothing on you.

But if this is a fairy tale, you are not the double agent. You are the terrorist.

You are thirty and Overwatch is reforming.

You stare at the screens surrounding you, at the holovids and the headlines and the official Overwatch files.

They try to fix things that can’t be fixed. They try to cure the world of a plague that is so much bigger than them. And you can’t help but admire them for it. They have determination to rival yours.

The difference is, they are doomed to fail, while you will succeed.

They are nothing. There are thousands of others like them. People who think that they can solve the unsolvable. That they can bring peace with smiles and sunshine and rainbows. You don’t need to concern yourself with them. They will fizzle out, like all the others.

And yet, you keep staring at the pictures surrounding you. You stare at this group of misfits who want to save the world.

For a second, you imagine yourself as one of them. You imagine still having hope that the world can be saved without violence. You imagine having the privilege of a moral compass. You imagine being good for the sake of being good.

It’s a foolish fantasy. They won’t last. They don’t have what it takes to survive, not like you do. In the end, they will fall, and you will rise. 

And then, finally, you will be a hero.

But if this is a fairy tale, you are not the hero. You are the villain.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! This is my first time writing a work of this length in second person, so tell me how I did!! <3 <3 <3


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